These Hope Prose Poetry poems are examples of Prose Poetry poems about Hope. These are the best examples of Hope Prose Poetry poems written by international PoetrySoup poets
Travelling to a foreign land,
engaging in a cause not rightfully yours to join,
illegally taking up arms
with a desperate desire to save baby orphans
(only to dig them into the ground anyway);
is a life-altering experience.
There is an old line which goes something like:
"A part of my soul died on that cold, November morn."
But, such an experience can have the opposite effect entirely.
Yes! An experience such as this
can re-kindle a passion within,
so that every single particle,
every minute of each passing hour,
feels like a sacred gift -
the most sacred gift imaginable.
Yet upon returning home from such an experience,
after being grilled by Internal Affairs,
threatened with charges of International Treason,
Subterfuge and Espionage(but in the end,
you were only trying to save baby orphans
that you had to dig into the ground anyway,
so Internal Affairs drops the charges, telling you to scram),
you are inevitably slapped across the face
with an inescapable new reality....
....everyone appears to be whining and complaining
about the most trivial things,
as if everyone simultaneously feels wronged.
And this is wot you feel compelled to do:
you want to take these whiners,
transport them one-by-one
back to the foreign land with you.
After they see living skeletons
drag themselves across the dirt,
moaning, groaning, pleading for a drop of clean water,
a miniscule morsel of food,
you hand the whiner a gun,
point toward an ominous dust-cloud on the horizon,
and this is wot you say:
"See the dust-cloud moving closer towards us.
It is filled with psychopathic horsemen.
These psychopathic butchers are wielding bayonets, machetes and Kalashnikovs.
If you and I do not successfully kill these mad horsemen,
they are going to chop apart all of the baby orphans
congregated in the courtyard over there.
Do you see the beautiful baby orphans in the courtyard?
Yes, those are the orphans.
And if we do not successfully defend this camp,
yet somehow survive with our lives,
we are going to spend the rest of the night
digging the baby orphans into the ground.
So, it best be high time you wipe the tears from your face,
stop worrying about how so-and-so called you a loser or wotever,
how your retirement funds appear to be shrinking
and so you won't be able to play as many games
of hitting the little white ball across a course
fed with enough water to run an entire city.
Forget about your little boo-boo.
Pull-up your chin, straighten that spine,
and start squeezing the trigger like there's no tomorrow."
September 25th, 2011
To the seedlings sprouting in the 8 corners of the world:
An open communique can lead towards
a perilous precipice overlooking jagged rocks
being pounded by the relentless waves
of a cold, apathetic ocean --
in such a circumstance,
it doesn't take much to slip,
to be pushed, to be sent over the edge,
shattering upon the rocks below,
sucked down by an undertow
erasing all evidence of your prior existence.
We have come to an impasse,
the windows of opportunity
in the jet-streams of change,
are passing by at astounding speeds.
A true Anarchist
is not a Terrorist;
leave such decrepit despondency
to ultra-fanatic zealots and the New Gestapo.
A true Anarchist
should not fight for lawlessness,
should not wish for chaotic, wanton destruction -
such myths are propagated by automatons
and the controllers themselves.
A true Anarchist
should not raise placards in protest,
should not spray-paint graffiti
upon the walls of gaudy Bauhaus replications,
nor lob Molotov cocktails
at an establishment so entrenched,
four heads grow back
to replace every head, decapitated.
A true Anarchist
dons a masque of mirages,
reflecting nationalism, consumerism and Swastikas
back into the eyes of the pushers.
A true Anarchist does so
by donning the uniforms of business districts,
of the worker,
of the paint-splattered, ink-stained artisan.
When a true Anarchist
gains the confidence and trust
of Drones left in charge
of oiling the cogs,
a true Anarchist enters the control-room
not to smash instruments,
turns dials, flicks switches, presses buttons,
re-writes programs and codes,
in order to help alter the directional course
of the very Beast itself.
There is an island, the isle of trials and denials. I knew it well; for it was there that
I entered this world, into an environment of anger and argument. Of imprisonment and high
expectations, driven by questionable motives and an absence of love. Surrounded by an
unreasonable sea to protect against the threat of friendship. Threat to whom? I never saw
any winners in this game of nurture, if nurture is what it was. But I have no regrets. I
point no finger. I cast no blame. Maybe I was the winner, because I never lost faith. To
me, the island was the island of hope. Hope never failed to fill me with optimism.
Optimism filled me with enthusiasm. Enthusiasm filled me with ambition and passion. I
believed in myself. I believed in the possibility of love. Belief enabled me to dream. To
dream of how love could be. Should be. But I never believed, would be.
I accepted that true love was the rarest of all flowers; that I would never be granted the
privilege to hold it in my arms; to witness its beauty with my own eyes; to become
intoxicated through its sweet heady scent. The abundance of love, honour and respect in my
heart, would never lie its head on the soft breast of its mate. But, at least, I would
have experienced some small glimpse of love in my hope filled dreams.
Now, I look back and wonder how I could have been so ready to loosen my hold on all that I
hoped for; all that I wanted; all that I needed. For you have shown me the true meaning of
love. You have given me unbelievable happiness. You have opened my eyes. I have discovered
that the love we have is bigger, better, more intense, more beautiful, more intimate, and
more precious, than anything I could ever have dreamed or hoped for. You have made me feel
like I have never felt in my life before. You have taken me to heights and places I have
never been before. I am filled with such deep and unconditional love, honour and respect
for you. My eyes fill with tears of joy as I write to you; as I think of you.
Burning so bright
With new found life
Released from his ball and chain
Out of the dark
And into the light
Flying… on wings of freedom again.
As he writes his life
His soul ignites
In flames of wisdom and sight
His God given right
As his truth kills the evil ‘Black Knight’.
When job positions within monopolies prevent us from working together
towards a goal far greater than lining the pockets of a few,
when schools stop us from educating ourselves,
and are instead, assembly lines churning-out tin soldiers,
when governments prevent humanity from achieving self-determination,
when media keeps us informed about current events,
rather than us becoming involved in the events,
then only in resistance will we find each other;
will we find ourselves in the purest sense.
The masqued ones are erasing themselves
within a society in which everything is under surveillance,
measured, quantified and appraised,
where everything is determined by resumes,
credit history, internet profiles.
Background checks, gossip columns, intelligence agencies,
conspire to drag every last detail out into the open.
The masqued ones live in an in-between world
being squeezed by other worlds.
It is a world existing in the hope of understanding reality,
by changing reality.
If the powers that be, can reveal the hidden world,
dragging it out under the searing spotlight of scrutiny,
under the spotlight of current mass-ideology,
then one more possible world reality becomes extinct
under the boots of Fascists using the freedom of speech
to silence the freedoms of everyone else;
eventually, even including themselves.
The controllers want to show there are no unchartered paths
leading away from the programmable masses of mundanity.
Therefore, the masque is seductive to those not fully conditioned
to become blind sheep led by shepherds, towards the slaughter.
The masque suggests mystery, unknowns,
alternative endings to a story covered in mildew.
The masque symbolizes a threat to an entrenched establishment.
The masque becomes the chrysalis in which a pupa
can evolve into something different; into something new.
....in warrens deep below,
Babylon-kids write love songs,
and above ground, people preach rights and freedoms,
while enslaving the world in the chains of a democracy
that has never truly existed.
Democracy is a dream turned nightmare,
so the Babylon-kids are keeping the dream
of a choose-your-own-adventure, alive.
Sitting alone again, wondering if you're okay.
being alone, i remembered how i wanted you to stay.
looking for something I can hold on to.
It's the pillow that reminds me of you.
Every time the clock ticks,
I would always find a way to entertain myself &
hoping i can do some magic tricks.
before i close my eyes & go to sleep,
every night , i hope, i can be w/ you for just a glimpse.
every time it rains, i would always go outside,
but i guess no one would like to hold my hand & be by my side
I touched my face & i was already crying under the rain.
will there be someone willing to cast away all this pain?
until now, no one would risk,to wipe off these tears.
The shadow of my past, well those are my fears.
i always want to hide myself from this world's madness.
I often feel that I'm inside a bubble or in a dark sanctuary,
where there is sadness.
I hope there will be a wishing star that will pass by.
I'll make another wish,to find the guy who cant make me cry.
i sat at the corner of my room, and in my hand, was a ring,
a question that even i cant answer,
"will i forever be waiting like an Angel w/ a broken Wing"?
He is the sinking of the final red orange sun of the glowing summer
Warmth no longer oozing and seeping into the pores as I lie bare under the skies
Jeweled dewdrops on the morning grass to dampen bare feet all softness under
And the shimmer on the surface of the lakes like the diamonds in your eyes
He is the golden cusp pf Autumn's Fertility
The ritual dance of the scarecrow in the breezes
(Straw coming loose and flying towards you, most certainly
will brush up against you and tickle before he ceases)
And this thinner less lumpy all seeing scarecrow
Seems to be in no remorse: his knowing face will always grin
And his arms will always be raised in a wave to show
He will protect the yellow brown stalks that bend before him
He is the crisp wind that caresses the crinkled foliage
Their rustling like long flowing skirts on a 1940s ballroom floor
These winds chill the fingers and toes and your face with the stinging red roses
Yet when winter beckons the retreating light, we will be frozen at its core
He is silent snowfalls and many winter moons
And the brown earth beginning to expose itself
The uncoiling of green and mud beginning to ooze
And all new life breaking free from its fragile shell
Unnecessary anguish that keeps you withdrawn heartache and heartbreak
continues to weight heavy for your sake you come undone and in an instant your
gone excuses are enough to justify when times get rough. So complicated and
jaded misunderstood swept away unexplained limbo in eternities irrevocable
flame, your not satisfied hollow reinsurance shows when you cry your personal
prison grows accustom to screams of loathing. My obsession to surround your
sorrow with calm and paint a prefect picture of stimulated reason to ease your
instability, breathe with me rest your frustration and regret break this darkness
and confess precious time will wait while your captivated in change I will carry
You came into my life, why? I didn’t invite you, I never wanted you around, you
know this , but you will not leave, you don’t know how much I hate you, and yet I
don’t hate anyone or anything. When you hate, to me, it is the same as killing. If I
only knew how to kill you ……. It would have been done many times over. I awake
every morning and there you are, ready to make my life miserable, the one thing
you enjoy most in your life. Wherever I go, you follow bringing your misery into my
life. Why cant you just leave and leave me in peace? I fight with you every day, and
it hurts so much, so much it hurts to fight with anyone, even you. There is one
way and only one way to rid you of me. I think of this often, but then where would I
be? I would not be, because you are part of me, your name is bi-polar. Handed
down from my father and from his father, and from me to my son, but he refuses
to recognize you, so he fights you without help he could get. If he would only say I
know who you are. I hurt for him everyday, and then I pray.
Oh God please forgive me for what I have brought upon my son. Son, I love you,
and am so sorry for what you go through. Maybe someday we will talk again. Dad
Day by day my body decays
And my soul waits
For the warmth of your embrace
The meaning I cannot trace
The time is now to receive your grace
I remember much
Yet memories past have no bearing
I can see much
The meaning almost clear
The dust settles and chaos vanquished
Peace and love echoed again and again through the halls of time
Bear no weight until the final moments
A single frame as I lay
Time will no longer wait and I can no longer stay
Harmony engulfs me
Symphonies escort me
And angels guide me
My loving Father waits for me
I can almost see Him
I certainly feel Him
The old world fades to grey
A brilliant glow not of this world fills me
A love not felt by mortals
It is the beginning of the end
My breath shallow
My thoughts clear
My soul readies
Do not weep
He is waiting for me
This is exactly where I am supposed to be